


Random Sweet

by azryal



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel seeks Wesley's assurance that he will be with him all the way.</p>
<p>Set between "Timebomb" and "The Girl in Question"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Random Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> My one and only Angel/Wesley

  
“I need you with me on this, Wes. I need you together and I need you on the ball.”  
  
I wonder if the words are sinking in, past the awkward silence and the incoherent mumbling he’s retreated again. Illyria was weakened, to the point of actually needing to rest, which left Wesley unfocused and unmotivated and talking to his book again. I can’t have him like this. Not with what I have planned.  
  
“Did you hear me, Wesley?” I say, a little louder.  
  
His eyes, ringed with red and black from lack of sleep and sunshine, glance my way. “Yes, of course, I heard you.” Then he holds the book up to his lips and whispers something into the spine, something I only half understand, but seems to pertain to me.  
  
“I need to know, Wes, that I can count on you,” I say, not just needing his assurance. I need my soldier, my confessor, my loyal companion who could do the worst thing in the world to me, out of love. I need my Wesley back.  
  
“You need not doubt me, Angel. When the time comes, I will be ready,” he answers, slowly turning pages without looking back up at me.  
  
I sigh, frustrated. “That’s not what I want to hear,” I tell him. “Well, it is, but there’s more.”   
  
His office is a pit. Books and scrolls and files of all sorts lay scattered around like so much debris. He’s left open ink wells overturned, barely tasted food on his desk, and half empty bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey sitting on the disorganized bookshelf. I walk over and take the bourbon down. I take a long pull, knocking back a solid two inches of the stuff. “You want any more of this?” I ask, holding it out towards him.  
  
He throws me a furtive look over his shoulder. “No, thank you.”   
  
Always so polite, Wesley. “We need to talk,” I say, walking back to the desk. “You should put the book down, and have some. Let me say a few things while you’re really listening.”  
  
“I said, no thank you,” he restates, more firmly this time.  
  
“Okay, fine.” I go back to the desk, and with one sweep of my arm have it cleared off. I take the book from his hands and toss it away. Then I sit in front of him and prop my feet up on his chair, on either side of him. “Now, do you want some?”   
  
He squints at me with a sort of shrewd appraisal. “I’m listening.”  
  
“You remember.”  
  
Sighing, he takes the bottle from me at last. “Yes.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.  
  
Wesley smiles, ruefully, and I see the shine of tears in his eyes. “You’re sorry? I ruined everyone’s lives, and you’re sorry.”  
  
“I am. Part of the deal was that no one remembered, except me. I didn’t want you to remember,” I tell him, watching him swallow two, three big mouthfuls. He winces as he lowers the bottle, wiping at his eyes and chuckling beneath his breath.  
  
“Oh, why not? What better punishment for what I did to you? To us all? See, Angel, what you don’t realize is exactly how culpable I really am. I set in motion a series of events, events that have led to where we are now. This sham, this travesty,” he says, waving his empty hand around, indicating the darkened office we were in, “is entirely my fault.”  
  
I think back to that night with Darla. “Not entirely.”   
  
He hands me the bottle again. “My truest regret is blaming Gunn. If I could…”  
  
“Take it back, I know. I know all about that,” I cut him off. The last of the bourbon burns down my throat, and I dangle the empty vessel between my fingers. “I did the same, when I blamed you, and I wound up regretting that later. Just to let you know.”  
  
“Thank you,” he says, softly. “I don’t remember if I said it, either. Of course, I can’t remember if I changed my shirt yesterday. Just in case I haven’t; I am so, so sorry, Angel.” His eyes are soft and earnest and filled with pain. So much pain. He starts to push the chair back with his feet, and I let him, dropping my own. He stands up and so do I, facing him, only inches away.  
  
“I know you are, Wesley. I’ve known it. I’ve been able to see it every line on your face, every movement, every breath since I came back,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders. “I never questioned your loyalty, Wesley.”  
  
“Angel, I wish you wouldn’t,” he whispers, not looking at me now.  
  
“What? Ask for your faith, your belief that in the next few days, that no matter how strangely I behave, I know what I’m doing?” I question.  
  
He shakes his head. “Touch me.”  
  
“But I haven’t touched you in so long,” I say, sliding my hands down his arms. “I see you slipping farther away, more than ever. I’ve lost Cordy. I can’t lose you, too. I can’t face this without you.”  
  
“You won’t.”  
  
“I saw you die, Wes. I saw you  _die_. I need to touch you, now, and I think you need it, too. You need it more than you need Illyria. You need to come out of this guilt-ridden fog and I need you,  _right now_.”  
  
My fingers dig into his arms, still so slender despite the new musculature, the new maturity. He has to look down at me to meet my eyes, something that used to bother him, but no longer. “You have me, Angel. You always have.”  
  
“Prove it,” I challenge him in a whisper.  
  
He licks his lips, only hesitating for a space of a breath before he moves in and kisses me.  
  
The floor is hard but accommodating as we kneel together. His shirt is soft and well worn, possibly too long worn as it’s infiltrated with his scent. I peel it up over his head and toss it away, ready to finally taste his flesh. He’s so pale he glows, but with a soft shimmer, as if his skin was gold threaded silk. My tongue finds the scar, there on his neck. The scar you can still  _just_ hear, especially when he’s tired, especially when he moans like that.   
  
“It should have never come to this,” he whispers, lying back at my insistence and allowing me to settle in between his thighs. “You shouldn’t feel you have to do this to keep me beside you.”  
  
I kiss him, deeply, pressing down into him just to feel the air leave his lungs and fill mine. “It’s not about that, Wes.”  
  
“Then tell me,” he breathes, his fingers pulling my shirt up and exposing my back.  
  
“I saw Connor again. Alive and happy, smiling in the sunlight, like he was supposed to be. Wes,” I say, drawing back a little so he can work the buttons open, “he would have never had that if he’d grown up with me. You saved him from that life. It doesn’t matter how or why, you saved him.”   
  
When I ease back down on him he gasps at the touch of my chest against his. “A happy coincidence, nothing more.”   
  
I kiss away his flippant words. “No. I don’t believe that. He fulfilled the prophecy, killed Sahjahn and still got to go home to his family. He’ll see the sun rise for years to come. I have you to thank for that. You, Wes.”  
  
He wants to argue, wants to deny his part in Connor’s salvation. Again, I silence him with a kiss. I push up with my hips, catching and rocking his in turn. I can feel him begin to harden beneath the jeans he wears and I want to know the taste of his cock. I kneel back, watch his face as I open the fly and pull him out. The loose skin feels like hot silk as I push it back, revealing the glistening pink head. I hear him whisper my name when I bend to take him in my mouth.  
  
There are no more words from him, no arguments, no endearments. A steady rush of air, in time to the thrust of his hips is all I hear until I stop. “No, please!” he cries then. I cover him again, kissing him hard and loving the feel of his sweat slicked skin against mine.  
  
“Together, Wes. This has to be together,” I tell him, mouth pressed to his ear, lips scraping across his stubbly cheek to find his again. He groans, shoving his hands between us to struggle with the belt and button of my slacks. At last they part, and his fingers wrap around my prick.   
  
It doesn’t take long from then on out. We push and strain against each other, his hands slipping in my saliva and the perspiration from his body as they try to hold our cocks as one. I explore his neck, slender and graceful and arching beneath my lips. When I grab his hair, twisting his head to the side to give me more exposed skin to sample, he utters a sharp cry, tenses, and dissolves into a trembling orgasm. His seed is hot, searing me, burning me and driving me to move harder, faster.   
  
I think I grunt as I come. I don’t say anything else; just feel him settle beneath me. His nervous energy vented, used up like the head of a match, he falls asleep quickly. I stay with him for a moment, reveling in the sweetness that I had for so long denied myself.   
  
“Remember, Wes. I know what I’m doing,” I say this to him, hoping that he still hears on some level, and lift myself off of him. I clean him and myself with his dirty shirt before I leave and throw the offensive garment in the trash. I take a moment more to straighten both of our clothes, but that’s all. I leave him there, asleep, resting for the first time in days, I’ll bet. The door to his office clicks quietly behind me.   
  
I want to smile, to savor the random loveliness of the encounter, but I haven’t got the time. There are three more members of my team, and they all need the knowledge that I need them. Almost as much as I need to know they’ll stay with me till the end.


End file.
